It Works Every Time
by xoraxox
Summary: As the Wizarding World is about to implode, the silent Millicent Bulstrode, she of the striking troll resemblance, may just prove to have so much to offer – if she’s willing to give. Multiple pairings, Pansy x Draco mostly. Almost certainly abandoned.
1. Chapter 00 Prologue

Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling, - if I was, would I be wasting my time writing these? No. Uncle Vernon would be dead, Dudley'd be at one of those irritating world-renowned child psychiatrists you see on those ever present day time talk shows, Harry would have it so much easier, Ginny and Tom Riddle would be madly in love, and Hermione and Draco … maybe. I like Draco. I don't know why – I just do. I don't know. Remus and Sirius definitely, although … wait, all these lovely characters to be paired together!! Hmm … What else would happen? Lily Evans would … Eh, I dunno, but I am still rather partial to the Lily/Snape concept. Maybe it was Liz Barr's _There__ Is No Such Place. _Haha. Subliminal message: READ THAT STORY. It's … incredible. One of my absolute favorites.

**Title:** It Works Every Time

**Author:** arimel

**Main Pairing:** MB/DM

**Side Parings:** PP/DM, GW/HP, HG/RW, others.

**Rating:** PG-13 for now, I think it's going to remain that way, but it'll probably wind up rather dark. I might bump it up to R if I feel like it, but I don't know.

**Genre:** Drama / Angst

**Summary:** The Wizarding World is about to implode, and the silent Millicent Bulstrode, she of the striking troll resemblance, may just prove to be the grudging key to the survival of the Muggle Race, and the universe as a whole. MB - DM.

**It Works Every Time**

**Prologue**

Millicent Bulstrode did not talk in Transfiguration class that week, even to make excuses for her homework, which was, as it always was, unfinished. That bit that appeared to be finished also appeared to have been attacked by a furious chicken, cackling, pen in claw. Her handwriting was many things, and former teachers had used many adjectives in the past – beautiful, it was not. Scrawling, messy, unfinished, scratching, scribbling, next-to-impossible to decode …

As impossible as Millicent herself, Severus Snape had once thought, grading papers after a third-year class. He guessed that she had written 'asphodel' and had marked it correct, but she could, he admitted, as easily have written 'aspen' or 'asphyxiate' or even 'aphrodisiac,' and he would never have been able to tell the difference. Brilliant? No. Idiotic? No, though she chose to present herself that way at times. A bit of an enigma, she was, passively and not so passively aggressive, idealistic, sullen, insightful, cruel, just a little too far off-key. She was one of the strangest of his House; sometimes he really wondered what she was thinking beyond that stone face, those hard, glassy dark eyes. Could it be that she was more than they thought she was, that she knew what people were thinking and saying and chose to ignore it?

_No_, he decided, with finality. _I'm trying to form her into genius, a talent, a diamond in the rough for me to discover and polish brilliantly. She isn't as nearly as complex as I am trying to make her. _And he continued to grade, and she passed from his mind as easily as she did from everyone else's.

Back in the transfiguration classroom, fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins sat, scrawling endless pages of notes, as the professor continued with a dry lecture, which she had, with a little laugh, admitted to purposely making dry, to test study skills. Lectures, questions and answers, more lectures, practicals, more lectures … Every fifteen and sixteen year old in that classroom was close to going insane. O.W.L. reviews. They were torture.

… McGonagall, she had feared, might call on her, just to be the spiteful bitch that she was, but by Thursday she had relaxed. The stern-faced professor had not even glanced her way, instead focusing on her obnoxiously precious Hermione Granger, and why shouldn't she? It was important to pay the most attention to those sure of continuing the subject at N.E.W.T. level, and that would obviously be Granger, less obviously … almost everyone else. Millicent was neither a brilliant student nor a slow one, but rather average. Her spellwork was decent, though mediocre, and she was no disruption, either, unlike most of the Slytherins. After completing the classwork, she remained calmly in her chair and read silently for the ten to fifteen minutes until she was dismissed for the Slytherin haven that was Potions. She was a very quiet figure in class, always—never expressing her distaste for Gryffindors while the teacher was present, or at least, not loudly—and far from the typical problem child, except for the little issue of paying attention, rather than doing geometric designs all over graph paper for potions class; although looking back, that might have been best for her.

It is not a healthy mental situation for a person to spend their life being gazed right through, particularly for a young one, and at fifteen, Millicent was still but a lonely child, for all she did not look it.

It's far easier for us, as humans, to pay attention to the beautiful and interesting, the attractive things in life, and Millicent, being neither, was doubly damned. A large, plain girl, she was thrice so condemned for her belligerent personality, aggressiveness, and far from occasional impulses of vicious sarcasm. She was not the least likeable, Miss Millicent Bulstrode, and she was not the least liked. Feared, yes, for she had a great deal of potential, and almost respected, in a grudging sort of way, but liked? Hardly. Even those who bothered even off-handed examination found her unpleasant, though those closest to her understood a little. She just _was_, to them, and they thought that they could accept that.

What had begun as a mere case of severe mid-year boredom now became a strange obsession to her. Just how long could she continue her self-imposed ban on speech? Forever? It seemed eternity, or else, a very long time. It was not difficult to avoid doing so. If asked a question or spoken to, she would smile, or nod, or grimace… She would make an expression, but not say a word. It seemed like she was embarrassed, like she was shy. Like she was stupid, like she had not done the past night's reading, like she did not know the answer. Like she was nothing more than the troll she appeared, and it was generally a successful attempt. In fact, it may have been a little too successful. Millicent did not speak to another human being for the rest of fifth year.

And then summer came, and she went home, and abandoned the empty spirit of Hogwarts for the emptiness of home. The house was large enough to have held over a hundred family members, and had, at one point in time, but now?

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, the Bulstrodes were a great clan, proud and wealthy. Wizarding nobility of the highest stature, they were on par with the Malfoy and Black families (Parkinson, one of the latest nouveau riche, hadn't even begun its ascent) with holdings spanning much of England, and there was much elsewhere. Now, after years of civil war throughout the wizarding world, they were only proud, no longer wealthy, or great. Along with their pride, only the barest remnants of their past remained, the ancestral home, unkept and wild, in ruins. It was lonely there, for it was alone without Millicent, nine and a half months out of the year.

Without company, yes, but no, it never was alone. The elder Bulstrodes, Millicent's parents, her grandparents, her great-great-great-great grandparents, up to the first of the Bulstrode clan in the ninth century, they were always there, twelve months out of every year, one hundred years out of every century, lying in most gracious state for millennia. Her parents' graves lay in the family cemetery, far in the back land, behind the manor, lying under the willow trees. Millicent used to visit them often, you know, as a child, at the age of nine or ten.

She used to visit all of them. She used to go and pluck daisies to put on their graves, and then talk to them, in that curiously confidential naivety of childhood, but she does not, does not ever anymore. She has not for years. She cannot.

The Ministry never interfered with her personal life; they never attempted to place her with a foster family of some sort, and for that, Millicent is thankful. Thank Merlin that some respect for the oldest and proudest of pureblood families still remains—they dare not remove her from her property, from her estate, for fear of protest. She has few friends in Slytherin, but even those who loathe her most would be more than glad to protect her, should the Ministry attempt any affront to her dignity.

She is a pureblood. Purebloods are above the law. Purebloods are the law.

The Ministry would never try to remove her.

Even the house elves had long since departed Bulstrode Park in search of greater employment in a healthier household, with more to do, with more people. Bulstrode Park was disintegrating before their very eyes. Now Millicent was the only person ever to go there, and even her acquaintances in Slytherin didn't know of what she did to keep herself occupied during the long, lonely, lazy days of June, July, and August. Read, they supposed, for she was always reading. And not just textbooks, or _Witch Weekly_, which were the juvenilia to be expected of a teenage witch, but…

Unsentimental and unromantic as she was, Millicent enjoyed poetry, Muggle as well as magic. It was an enigma to her dorm-mates, who couldn't comprehend how Millicent, their powerful, angry classmate, could possibly mellow so much when she spoke of that sort of thing. It made no sense, but some of them believed her occasional far-fetched philosophical whimsies to be just tension release, different from their methods, but the same in origin. Certainly more healthy than the other self-destructive mannerisms they had picked up over the years. It was, thought some, perhaps a better way to lose ones' self than not, and they might have been interesting to speak with her on occasion. Some would even have befriended her, truth be told. It was a pity that she never learned precisely what they thought, but Millicent, with all her complaints of never being heard, rarely ever listened.

Millicent would have been able to tell anyone about poetry, about its forms, the subtle art which lay behind it, for hours upon hours on end, but she refused to do so. It was pointless, worthless. No one would have listened to her, even if she tried. She knew this.

By the time seventh year rolled around, Millicent had not spoken to another human being for almost two years, and had hardly uttered a sound for over a year. She was nothing; she was no one even more than before. A plain girl who lived and breathed poetry, a future dark witch of indeterminate power and low intelligence. A terrifying troll, a mediocre student, a boring girl. Dull. Dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull dull.

So very dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have. She was dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have. She was dull. No wonder they wouldn't try to speak to her. She was dull. No wonder they didn't try to speak to her. She wouldn't have…

Perhaps they merely thought she was shy.

The thought amused her, but the amusement was a fleeting feeling.

It was with a heavy heart that Millicent traveled back to Hogwarts for her final year. She had figured that she would be once more the plain, silent outcast, and she was almost prepared for that. She had her sanctuaries, both mental and physical, she had herself, she had her mind. She would be alone, but she wouldn't need them. She was Millicent Bulstrode, ugly and dull, but she was herself, they couldn't take her away from herself, even if they tried. She had one more year to go, but once it was over, she could retire back to Bulstrode Park, live in isolation, and try to rebuild the Bulstrode name.

She could live alone, read poetry, try to rebuild herself and her clan. She'd be nothing, but oh – the Bulstrodes would be something again. She'd be revered for the dedication she put into restoring the family, for purebloods almost worshipped those dedicated to the family, to the status of being pure and good and wizardly. She'd be able to live her life and have her grave remembered.

There was one error in her calculations, however; and he was a big one.

She rose at nine o'clock in the morning on September the First, and was at King's Cross Station by eleven-thirty. Millicent was through Platform 9 ¾ and on the train by eleven-thirty-five, and found a seat quickly. She waited, not feeling up to reading, and watched the world go by. A certain first year had for a pet, neither an owl, cat, nor toad, but rather, a baby manticore for a pet, and was rather confused as to why people were screaming. A fifth year Ravenclaw that Millicent knew slightly was attempting to make out with his best friend's girlfriend, to the supreme disbelief of said best friend, who proceeded to wallop the other male, and one of the second years from Gryffindor was busy attempting to egg them on. Hermione Granger was, as could be expected, Head Girl, and Justin Finch-Fletchley of Hufflepuff, Head Boy. Harry Potter, quidditch captain, Ron Weasley, prefect once more … It seemed the Dream Team was back for one last blow at glory…

Millicent could hardly wait. She was so looking forward to this.

It was now One-twenty-seven in the afternoon. Sitting in a train compartment with Blaise Zambini, Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy, and Vincent Crabbe, listening to them discuss a house party Blaise had hosted over the summer, apparently a very good one, and one which she herself had not been invited to, Millicent proceeded to recite a poem, silently, in her head:

'_This is the one song everyone_

_would__ like to learn: the song_

_that__ is irresistable:_

_the__ song that forces men_

_to__ leap overboard in squadrons_

_even__ though they see the beached skulls_

_the__ song nobody knows_

_because__ anyone who has heard it_

_is__ dead, and the others can't remember._

_Shall I tell you the secret_

_and__ if I do, will you get me_

_out__ of this bird suit?_

_I don't enjoy it here_

_squatting__ on this island_

_looking__ picturesque and mythical_

_with__ these two feathery maniacs_

_I don't enjoy singing_

_this__ trio, fatal and valuable._

_I will tell the secret to you,_

_to__ you, only to you._

_Come closer. This song_

_is__ a cry for help: Help me!_

_Only you, only you can_

_you__ are unique_

_at__ last. Alas_

_it__ is a boring song_

_but__ it works every time_.'

'Siren Song,' by Margaret Atwood. (I know nothing about her…. Sorry. I just thought that the poem was cool. Found it in one of those poetry anthologies they make you get for school.)

Author's Note: PLEASE review! You KNOW that you really want to…. Come on, press the bluish-grayish-whateverish button right underneath this. Make my day! Please?

-arimel


	2. Chapter 01 The Only Sin

**Disclaimer**: I am not J.K. Rowling. I wish, because it'd be absolutely **awesome **if say, Neville wound up being the savior of Harry Potter Universe (TM), but ... Yeah. I'm not her.

**Title**: It Works Every Time

**Author**: arimel

**Main Pairing**: MB/DM

**Side Parings**: PP/DM, GW/HP, HG/RW, possible slash, and likely pairings all over the place.

**Rating**: PG-13 for now, I think it's going to remain that way, but it'll probably wind up rather dark.

**Genre**: Drama / Angst

**Summary**: The Wizarding World is about to implode, and the silent Millicent Bulstrode, she of the striking troll resemblance, may just prove to be the grudging key to the survival of the Muggle Race, and the universe as a whole. MB - DM.

**It Works Every Time**

**Chapter One**

**"The Only Sin is Mediocrity" – Martha Graham. **

He looked at her as if she was a goddess, and maybe Pansy Parkinson was, now. She'd gone through a pretty wretched adolescence, but emerged with a certain sense of prettiness that surprised even her family. It must have taken some god-like qualities to transform her into … **this**. She wasn't classically beautiful, by any stretch of the words, but she had the sort of beauty one imagined that Helen of Troy might have had - odd, intense, unforgettable - but of course, in at a much smaller scale. She was short - only about five foot one, or five foot two, and mildly plump, with the sort of figure that Raphael might have painted, but her eyes were large and dark, very expressive, and somehow, the overall affect was sleek, polished, well-cared for. It was quite impressive, considering how she used to be. Professor Snape had, in her last evaluation home, said that she was 'growing to be a lovely young lady – beautiful as well as intelligent, and a joy to Slytherin House.'

He looked at Blaise Zambini as if she were a temptress, seductive and worldly; Hannah Abbott appeared as an attractively wholesome girl next door, the stereotypical Muggle cheerleader adored by the football captain. He made Parvati and Padma Patil feel like he saw them both as separate, different, beautiful young women, and they both greatly liked the attention, and the separate identities. People so often treated them as one half of the same being, and at eighteen, they were so tired of it. In truth, they had spent years attempting to be different – they had both asked the Sorting Hat not to be in the same house, and while Padma had thrown herself into Transfiguration study with the ease of a child prodigy, and Parvati had almost abandoned schoolwork for divination, so many, **so many **that they knew still regarded them as one being. Draco Malfoy was successful, because he acknowledged easily, without difficulty, Parvati Patil and Padma Patil without making any sort of excessive connection between.

He even looked at Hermione Granger with appreciation, and made two or three tentative gestures, before she looked down her thinly framed glasses at him with that confident, self-assured intellectual boredom regarding the entire male species, and asked him if he would _please, go away, she was busy right now._ But even she couldn't quite say that she didn't like his attention, though - he was mildly attractive, she had to admit, he had gained some sense of manners between before last year, and he was certainly, most certainly, a charmer. Even she began to warm at him when they spoke in NEWT Potions, idly chatting about scientific method, and the results of their latest experiments. They were both bright and young and beautiful. Was there any reason they should not be friends?

He smiled at them, these girls/women; he touched them, not inappropriately, but on the arm, or shoulder or cheek; he caressed them in casual, oddly intimate ways. He brought them simple, slight, perfect gifts of a book that he'd had for some time, and thought that they'd enjoy, or flowers he had found, or little bits of jewelry that he assured them he had had for ages, and thought would suit them. He talked to them, and seemed utterly fascinated by anything and everything they said. Perhaps it wasn't that he seemed fascinated, but that he was - he was fascinated by women, by everything about them. They were Other - they were different, and completely captivating.

Draco Malfoy loved women. Strangely enough, he wasn't particularly promiscuous - no more than the typical seventeen or eighteen year old male Slytherin, anyway - but he _was _a flirt, and acknowledged the fact, even to himself, surprisingly enough. It was a quite un-Slytherin-like thing to do, but most people did not seem to notice.

Millicent did, but that was only because she watched him. Sometimes, it felt like she was stalking him, but she tended to ignore those feelings, to let them go away. Draco was handsome, but that wasn't why she paid such great attention to him; he was charming in manner, but she could have blatantly ignored that too. It was just simply that there was something weird about him – something very weird about him that she couldn't quite determine. He wasn't quite like everyone else.

They'd been pals as kids, but slowly moved away, like so many other childhood friends. Once upon a time, back when the Bulstrode clan had been wealthy, even a betrothal had been considered, but nothing had come out of it, and Millicent was glad, now. (As was Draco. Most assuredly. He would have shuddered at the thought.)

As kids, they'd romped about the various estates: all of the Pureblood scions had. Millicent could recall, though only vaguely now, her birthday party at the age of five, with Pansy, Draco, Blaise Zambini, Crabbe (but not Goyle – they hadn't been terribly wealthy then), even the Patil sisters, Rebecca Wright (Ravenclaw – graduated last year), and so many others. Rich, young, pureblood. It was perfect for all of them.

Pansy had lucked out. Millicent hadn't.

When they were a couple of years younger, and Millicent had been a couple thousand times more interested in the making of friends, they had been. Both. Friends, I mean, but plain, as well. Neither had been particularly brilliant, though Millicent had a bit of a knack for potions, and neither particularly attractive, although Pansy had had the assurance of good genetics on her side, and parents who would be willing to pay to fix her face, if necessary – and Millicent hadn't. They'd bonded their first year, though they'd always been friends growing up, mainly because they both had nothing interesting about them. Millicent was dull, poor, and unattractive, while Pansy was dull, **rich, **and unattractive, and this made no difference at first, and then all of the difference in the world.

Millicent still smarted a bit from that. Pansy had had such potential – why did she feel the need to turn into such a bitch?

Millicent didn't care about her anymore.

It still hurt.

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N.E.W.T. Potions, right before lunch. Millicent wasn't in it. She should have been.

Instead, Millicent was hiding in her dorm, reading a bit of Keats, and trying to pretend that she didn't exist. She had wanted to take Potions this year; she had **wanted to take that class** unlike any other she had ever taken. She wasn't taking it, and it wasn't because her grades weren't good enough – Snape never took daily grades, only tests and quizzes, exams, and she'd done quite well on those – but he'd sent her a short note before breakfast:

_Miss Bulstrode – I have received a notice of your elected participation in N.E.W.T.-level Potions class, and I am looking forward to working with you. However, due to new Ministry standards, I am now required to have oral examinations as well as written ones, and I am well aware of your obvious reluctance to do so. Please speak with me as quickly as possible.. Send a reply._

He'd signed his name with great flourishes and loops, and written it in green pen (_a little school spirit, Snape?_) and Millicent wasn't going to reply. God damn it, and God damn him. She was **not **going to do oral examinations, N.E.W.T. Potions class or no N.E.W.T. Potions class. Damn the Ministry. She felt almost as if she were about to begin to froth at the mouth, and she wondered if she should warn people of rabies. Maybe it would make them stay away.

Millicent flopped over onto her stomach, and felt as if she were about to scream. She did, muffling her face into a pillow, but it was pointless, because no sound came out. It was a silent sort of scream, but she could hear the air emerging from her throat – a gasping, choking, wheezing sort of silent scream. She wasn't crying, though. She was tired of tears.

She didn't know where to go from here.

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Millicent cut her third period transfigurations class, and figured that while, yes, McGonagall would probably try to hunt her down, no, McGonagall would not be able to do so, and besides, the class was worthless. It was like, Senior Year Transfigurations for Dummies class, Rocks for Jocks (though there weren't any athletes in the class), and she could practically hear McGonagall's teeth grind every time she tried to lecture, and finished fifteen minutes early, screeching at them to silently read the rest of the chapter, as they were clearly incapable of taking notes. The class sucked; the teacher sucked; her grades sucked; it all sucked.

It sucked having a teacher who thought you were an uneducable moron, who looked down her nose at you. It sucked being made to feel like an uneducable moron, especially when she wasn't, dammit It sucked having a vocabulary so sucky the only adjective (verb?) she could use was 'suck.'

Millicent didn't believe herself to be brilliant by any means, or even particularly intelligent, but she was quite self-aware, and she recognized that. She was offended by McGonagall's presumption that she, Millicent Bulstrode, had the intelligence of a particularly unintelligent wombat, but she didn't honestly care to correct this misconception. The class was worthless. McGonagall was worthless. Christ, this all sucked.

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Millicent skipped dinner that night, and, stealing one of Pansy Parkinson's contraband Muggle diet sodas, went outside onto the field by the side of school to think. There was a torch above her, so that she could see, and she'd brought a book – _The Unbearable Lightness of Being_. God, she needed to get over these Muggle-literature kicks. The rest of her dorm mates were getting quite wary.

All of them had some sort of Muggle fancy, of course – Pansy Parkinson's diet sodas and fashion magazines, Blaise Zambini's Dior lipsticks and fascination with mechanical pencils, Draco with his (and his father's) gun collection, Crabbe and Goyle, who as young children, had been obsessed with the game of football, and rooted for Manchester (Millicent thought they fit in there quite well – the thugs) – but it wasn't proper to discuss it aloud. Every pureblood-witch or –wizard enjoyed these, but talking was rude. Muggles were good to keep in silence, were often cute playmates for the littles, but it wasn't proper to talk about it in public, except among themselves. Muggles were Muggles, and witches and wizards were exactly that, and ne'er the two should mix … except when they did.

Millicent remembered how she'd had one of those little buddies when she was a midget – her name had been Karen, she thought, Karen Alig, and she wondered, _what's happened to Karen Alig now? –_but she didn't really think about that playmate anymore. Pansy had, too – some kid, she couldn't remember the name, strawberry blond hair, he'd come to her house before. Most, if not all of them had. There weren't enough purebloods around to be completely segregated in choice of playmates, and besides, most pureblood adults believed that it was very important to teach their children how they were superior.

_One must be around with one's inferiors at times_, Millicent remembered Narcissa Malfoy lecturing, at one of those pureblood 'playgroups', _it is a responsibility to act properly and politely. Of course, they are not worthy of being our constant companions, are they children? But of course, we **will **be forced to entertain … Mudbloods…. and Muggles at some point in our lives, will we not?_

It was so important to regard them as inferior, but to be polite. So important.

Millicent didn't regard Muggles and Mudbloods as being revolting – she regarded them with pity. _Poor little Muggles—trapped in their silly little world to do silly little things before they die. What must it be like not to have magic?_

Most purebloods (and halfbloods, truth be told) regarded Muggles the same way, and Mudbloods, by extention. It hadn't been until about forty, almost fifty years ago that they'd done away with calling them Mudbloods on official papers; officially, the term did not exist any more. It was 'Muggle-born' and that was to be that. Millicent scoffed at the idea.

Hermione Granger wasn't a 'Muggle-born' witch. She was a Mudblood. Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood Mudblood. The term didn't mean anything rude. _Well, maybe it does, but it's what they are_. Millicent didn't believe in this newfangled 'political correctness' –it was no longer Pureblood and Halfblood and Mudblood officially. It was 'Magic-born Wizard' and 'Mixed-Parent Wizard' and 'Muggle-born Wizard.'

_What if they're just Mudbloods? **Honestly**._

Millicent took a large gulp from her soda, and closed her book. She wasn't reading, anyway, just trying to think.

She was glad that she hadn't gone to dinner. It was always so awkward, what with most of her house ignoring her, and Pansy Parkinson occasionally attempting conversation in order to seem nice, despite receiving only grunts in return. It was so awkward walking in and getting the quick look-over by the Gryffindors, and some others; it was so awkward, so awkward.

Millicent was ugly, but she wasn't stupid. She saw the side-glances, and heard the comments, and they made her somewhat angry. _Stupid, stupid, stupid people.__ Always trying to stick your noses in someone else's business, aren't you._

It was nice to be alone, sometimes, alone from Slytherin House and Professor Snape's occasional interferences and Pansy Parkinson's ersatz likeability, and—and—and—

All of that. All of it.

It was so nice to be alone.

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Four classes a day; five days a week, and her core classes were two or three times a week, and some electives only once.

**_Monday and Wednesday, first period_** – she had **_Practical Charms for Life Use_**

**_Tuesday and Thursday, first period – Ancient Runes Advanced_**. It was like silent study hall, and she was good with silence. Turn in a paper of what's been translated once a week – hurrah! It was her one mildly honorific class—she took with Terry Boot, Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Justin Finch-Fletchy, and all the other geniuses about campus. Silence is golden.

**_Friday, first period – Free period._******Sleep? Senior Somnia.

**_Monday and Wednesday, second period – Theoretical Defense Against the Dark Arts_** (and any sort of knowledge whatsoever – this was Stupid-Stupid DADA, which meant that they were afraid to let the geniuses inside use their wands for anything)

**_Tuesday and Thursday, second period –_** ought to have had N.E.W.T. Potions, instead, appeared to be enrolled in **_Senior Honors Potions_** Course for Those Who Want an Honors on their Graduation Certificate but cannot Hack it in the Actually Difficult Course, Thus, are Enrolled Here. Snape, obviously. He was a saint for teaching this—Millicent supposed that she would have winged the students about five minutes into the first class. He was saintly, but it was morbidly dull.

**_Friday, second period – Divination_** for Dummies. Her favorite class. It meant she could sleep until lunch.

**_Monday, Wednesday, third period – Senior Herbology._** Hateful class. She was terrified that she'd kill something.

**_Tuesday, Thursday, third period – Senior Transfiguration_** for Jocks and the other mentally impaired.

**_Friday, third period – Arithmancy_** for those with less than ten fingers. It was like a Muggle math course, only, easier. Simplicity at its finest. Agony, indeed.

**_Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, fourth period – Free Period.._**

**_Wednesday and Friday, fourth period – Modern European History of Magic. _**

Her schedule was almost as bad as her life.

Millicent glanced over this, her final copy, her final year. All of these stupid, stupid classes for stupid, stupid people—hadn't she been quite bright, once? All of that early promise, and it seemed to slip away, year by year. She'd taught herself to read at age three, and was a voracious reader by age seven; she'd done early maths with joy and happiness; she'd been bright as a pin, sharp as a tack, very clever.

And where had it gotten her? A stupid girl in stupid classes doing stupid things for stupid reasons that even she, in all her stupidity, could not understand.

What had happened to her life? This wasn't what she'd expected as a small girl. Her life was like that wedding ring, in that poem. _All right, that's a lousy metaphor, but what the hell…_

_My wedding-ring lies in a basket_

_as__ if at the bottom of a well._

_Nothing will come to fish it back up_

_and__ onto my finger again._

_It lies_

_among__ keys to abandoned houses,_

_nails__ waiting to be needed and hammered_

_into__ some wall,_

_telephone__ numbers with no names attached,_

_idle__ paperclips._

_It can't be given away_

_for__ fear of bringing ill-luck._

_It can't be sold_

_for__ the marriage was good in its own_

_time__, though that time is gone._

_Could some artificer_

_beat__ into it bright stones, transform it_

_into__ a dazzling circlet no one could take _

_for__ solemn betrothal or to make promises _

_living__ will not let them keep? Change it_

_into__ a simple gift I could give in friendship?_

Millicent wasn't in love. Pity.

She had no fulfillment here, either. Maybe it'd be best if she found someone who wanted a wife and settled down to raise ugly children in a suburban home. She couldn't be anyone anymore, but they could.

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Millicent had become preoccupied with love.

She didn't want to be in love herself (she'd gotten over previous mania) but as she sat in her first period class on Thursday, in mid-September, she wondered. Ancient Runes Advanced, and she didn't glance at her seatmate, Gwen Harwood, some genius Ravenclaw fifth-year.

Instead, she watched Draco Malfoy and Adrienne Rich, quietly flirting at the side of the classroom. Adrienne was pretty, dark-haired, lovely. Hufflepuff. Stupid. But not unintelligent.

She was another one of those bright girls who didn't notice what was in front of her—that Draco Malfoy wasn't a bad type, but that he didn't care about her personally, that he didn't care about anyone personally. That he only cared about himself, and women.

Perhaps she was wrong, and wronging him, but Millicent doubted it. She thought that she was right. Malfoy had to be uninterested in these girls; Millicent needed him to be.

She wasn't in love with him, or in lust with him, or in like with him.

Millicent needed proof of common humanity. She couldn't be the only one frozen, the only one who felt so empty, so different, so solitary.

_Solitude stands by the window  
She turns her head as I walk in the room  
I can see by her eyes she's been waiting  
Standing in the slant of the late afternoon _

_And she turns to me with her hand extended  
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame_

_Solitude stands in the doorway  
And I'm struck once again by her black silhouette  
By her long cool stare and her silence  
I suddenly remember each time we've met_

_And she turns to me with her hand extended  
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame_

_And she says "I've come to set a twisted thing straight"  
And she says "I've come to lighten this dark heart"  
And she takes my wrist, I feel her imprint of fear  
And I say "I've never thought of finding you here"_

_I turn to the crowd as they're watching  
They're sitting all together in the dark in the warm  
I wanted to be in there among them  
I see how their eyes are gathered into one_

_And then she turns to me with her hand extended  
Her palm is split with a flower with a flame_

_And she says "I've come to set a twisted thing straight"  
And she says "I've come to lighten this dark heart"  
And she takes my wrist, I feel her imprint of fear  
And I say "I've never thought of finding you here"_

_Well_, Millicent thought, _I never thought of finding you here, either._

She stared at Draco Malfoy, and at Adrienne Rich. She wasn't in love with him, and she wasn't in love with her. She was in love with love.

She didn't want someone to care.

She wanted something to do. She needed a hobby. She needed a dream.

_Millicent_, she addressed to herself, before turning back to her Runes, _you really need a plan, don't you? Where're you going from here?_

She looked up from her paper once more, but she gazed at the wall blankly, thinking. She needed to find something to do before she slit her wrists in annoyance. Something to do, and she wanted to find it fast. She couldn't stay in stasis forever.

Millicent didn't even want to whisper, but times like these, she felt like screaming.

_I wonder what would happen if I **did **scream. Would they turn around?_

_You really need a plan, don't you?_

_Where're you going from here? _

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Poem 1: 'Wedding-Ring' by Denise Levertov. Written in 1978.

Poem 2: Excerpt from 'Solitude Standing' by Suzanne Vega. Indie artist – this song's on the album also entitled 'Solitude Standing.' Couple of very morbid songs on there: Tom's Diner, Luka, Solitude Standing and Calypso, mainly, but SS and Tom's Diner give me the shivers.

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**Alianora**** of Toure-on-Marsh: **Ahh, Tessa, m'dear. Ask, and ye shall receive. Here you go!

**Faerelei-Gwilwileth**Aww, thank you. J'adore your name – gorgeous. Thanks for commenting!

**Larzdinn**Ach, don't you hate that? It's almost impossible to be original nowadays with fanfic. Thanks so much for replying to moi (and I enjoy your story as well, actually – looked it up!)

**Evilstrawberry**Thanks for replying, dahlink!

**Catgrl52" **Lizgib, dear – thanks for review; j'adore, and I fixed my spacing, k?

**Darcel**Thank you! (For all of your million million zillion reviews.) You're quite kind.

**Catspook**Why, thank you! I've read several of your fics, and they're quite well done. I appreciate the feedback.

**Fan: **Hmm … Well, you see, my idea is that she's not completely silent. She just grunts, or makes noises that sound like she's just not interested in conversation with anyone else. You know, like that. Thanks for reviewing!


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